


She thinks it’s funny that they’re awkward in bed

by Emma_dghc



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_dghc/pseuds/Emma_dghc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks it’s funny that they’re awkward in bed. It’s not smooth. They don’t always read each other like books. That connection they have in the precinct only gets them so far. Sometimes he gets kicked in the shin, sometimes his head bumps hers, sometimes they stop and she redirects, until they’re both keening and desperate. A Season 5, oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She thinks it’s funny that they’re awkward in bed

She thinks it’s funny that they’re awkward in bed. Not bad. No, they’re fantastic in bed. Mind blowing. Earth shattering. Hell, orgasmic doesn’t seem good enough, but they are, multiply and hugely orgasmic, every time.

But it’s not smooth. They don’t always read each other like books. That connection they have in the precinct only gets them so far. Sometimes he gets kicked in the shin, sometimes his head bumps hers, sometimes they stop and she redirects, until they’re both keening and desperate.

She smiles as his fingers fumble with her bra. She’s not helping, her knee pressed into the crease of his pants, rubbing ever so gently. He told her once that hers is the first bra to flummox him since he was 13. She feels rather flattered, even if it means that she’s the one who reaches around to undo the clasp.

His hands are already busy, brushing down her stomach, curling behind her neck to pull her up to him, so his lips can fuse to hers, teeth coming out to scrape at her bottom lip. She gives back, sucking his tongue into her mouth, letting her teeth drag down its length until he’s groaning into her, his hand slipping the lace from her hot flesh while she shimmies off her bra.

His large fingers slide over her, slick with her want for him, and he hums into her mouth, swirling his middle finger over her clit, just to feel her hips buck up into his, legs splayed by his thighs. She moans as he moves down, pressing feverish kisses across her neck and down until he finds her breast. 

His finger slides into her as his tongue swirls over her nipple and she writhes beneath him, watching through hazy, lidded eyes as he grins and then continues his assault on her breast.

“Ow,” she says softly, but he hears and releases her with a little pop.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her breast, beside the nipple he’s ravaged the previous day, and the day before that. Always a little too much, always a little pain with the pleasure. But she likes it—enjoys the ache and light stinging at the oddest moments, sometimes the press of the vest, sometimes the brush of her brassiere.

But his finger swipes at her and her head falls back with a pant she can’t control. He grins against her skin, and she hates him for it, loves him for it. He’s infuriating—smug and proud. But he should be, really. After all, they’re his fingers that plunge inside her, curling up with deft accuracy, pressing in, making her writhe and gasp. 

And then his mouth, so often spewing nonsense or jokes, or whispered words of love in the dark of night—then it takes up a new talent, another talent, one of his best, she thinks. He hums against her and she arches off the bed, her hands curling into the sheets.

He grunts as her legs slide over his shoulders, feet landing too heavily on his back. But she’s not really in control of herself right now, not when his tongue and his hand are doing that and—Oh, yes, like that. 

“Good?” he asks, pulling away to look up at her, infuriating man.

“Yes,” she grits out, arching up, trying to draw him back in. But his fingers slow. “Yes. Castle.”

“How good?” he continues, curling his fingers up and pressing. 

She keens and arches, searching for his mouth. She’s so close. So damn close. 

“How good, Kate?” 

Fucking man and his fucking ego. “The best, you assho—”

His rhythmic rub has her falling over the edge, gasping between squeaks and tiny moans within seconds. Her body shudders and tenses, and with the minuscule part of her mind she still has, she feels him grinning against her as he brings her down, so very proud of himself. 

And damn him, she can’t even protest. He’s so good.

He gives her a moment before his fingers start moving again. But she can’t. She—he can’t try to top himself every night.

“Castle,” she groans, fighting her natural response, the easy desire to just let him get her off over, and over, and over, until she just can’t move anymore, numb and stunned on a hazy cloud of pleasure. 

“No?” he asks, looking up at her. He keeps moving though, keeps her on the edge.

“You—last night. Five last night. Think two is enoug—three, okay, three.”

He laughs against her and she writhes under his touch. “As you wish,” he says, his lips moving around her.

“Holy—”

Her hips raise and he brings a hand up to still her, pressing her down into the mattress, his ridiculously talented tongue flicking until she breaks again, so fast, so hard. She sobs out a sound, half delight, half gut wrenching pleasure.

When she recovers, he slides up beside her, his hand warm, wet, and steady on her stomach. She turns her head to watch him as his hazy features come back into focus. He smiles and leans down to press his lips to hers, swiping his tongue along her bottom lip. She opens her mouth, tastes herself on his tongue, and groans.

He pulls back and meets her eyes, that smug grin replaced with affection. “Sexy. Anyone ever tell you how sexy you are?”

She swallows and wets her lips as a blush climbs her cheeks. “Sometimes—a writer guy I know.”

He chuckles and rubs circles on her stomach with his thumb. “Sure I can’t raise your number?”

“I can barely move. I had to take an Aleve and jog for an hour today,” she admits, giggling as his eyes go wide. “Happily so,” she adds, reaching up to cup his cheek, trailing her fingers up to trace the shell of his ear. “Seriously.”

“F’you’re sure,” he mumbles, turning his face into her palm to press his lips to her pulse. 

“Very sure,” she purrs, recovering herself enough to drag a toe up the side of his leg. He shudders against her. “Now, how ‘bout we raise your number?”

“Already raised,” he mumbles, pressing his face into her neck as she gets her fingers on him.  
“Fuck, Kate.”

She grins and strokes him lazily, base to tip, a little clumsy with her hand trapped between them, her wrist pressing into her stomach. But it’s obviously working for him. 

“Think you can make it to two?” she murmurs against his jaw, working him over with more purpose now. She’d love to get her mouth on him, but he doesn’t seem capable of moving at the moment.

“Nu-uh,” he mumbles, pulling back to meet her eyes. “Sixteen hours at the prec—” she squeezes, “—inct, Beckett.” And even hot and bothered and fit to burst in her hand, he looks a little sorry about it.

She smiles at him, hoping to convey that one round is just fine by her. She arches up and catches his mouth as she takes back her hand. He whines, but she’s already shifting, arching up to brush herself against him, trying to angle them into one. He groans as she brushes over him, letting him feel just how ready she is. How ready he’s made her.

“Can you?” he asks as he rears up to give them enough space.

She shrugs and grips at his back. “Give it a shot,” she says.

He laughs. “Oh, I’ll shoot,” he tosses back in time with the thrust of his hips.

Her head falls back at the feeling, her mouth open on a silent cry. It doesn’t seem to matter that they’ve done this a hundred times. Every single time he slides into her she brims over. And yes, he’s…majestic, but more, it’s just that he’s him. And she’s her. And he’s rocking into her, filling her, stretching and pressing and sliding against everything that’s made to feel anything.

“Jesus, Kate,” he lets out, leaning down to press his lips to her cheekbone. 

It’s not the best position for her—doesn’t quite get the right angle, but she loves it. Oh, she loves the feeling of him on top of her, pressing down. His broad frame dwarfing hers, muscular arms holding up his solid chest—all the things about him that make him so strong and solid, even when he’s silly and annoying and God-damn ridiculous—she loves having him close, having him surround her.

“Feels good,” she gets out. Doesn’t feel quite good enough for a third, but that’s just fine by her. 

He grunts and lifts up a little, freeing one hand, balancing all of himself on one arm to snake his other between them. His fingers slip clumsily over her clit and she mewls. Well, maybe she can get to a third if he’s that dedicated about—

“Castle,” she gasps as he sets a rhythm, swirling with the pads of his fingers, light and just fucking perfect.

“Yeah?” he asks, finding her eyes, both of them a little hazy and sweaty.

“Yeah just, harder and up a—there,” she breathes out as he shifts his hips, hitting a little higher, brushing just over where she needs him inside.

She’s getting worked up, and fast, can feel her muscles tightening, that blissful, gripping feeling, almost better than the release itself building across her body.

“You close?” he grits out, forehead pressed to hers. 

She can tell he’s on the brink, in the set of his jaw, the look in his eyes, the bulge of the muscles in his arm. He’s not going to make it as long as she is, but damn if that should stop him. She nods and tightens around him, delighting in the way his eyes widen and his rhythm falters.

“If you do that I’m gonna…” he manages.

“Just keep your fingers moving, champ,” she stutters, clenching around him again. 

He breathes forcefully through his nose, but no, she’s going to make him come undone. He doesn’t have to hold out just for her. She’ll get there. She rolls her hips and tightens, and he completely loses it, pistoning into her three times before dropping his head into her neck with a moan.

She grins then gasps for air as his fingers keep working at her, twisting and curling. It takes her a minute, and she loves him all the more for the effort. He sucks on her pulse, his face pressed into her shoulder, his chest still heaving over hers, and she breaks. It rushes through her, sharp and heady, and she lets herself call out his name, gripping his back as he collapses on top of her, the added weight sparking aftershocks.

He grunts into her as her orgasm wrings him out. She can feel herself clenching around him, both of them panting and making small, sated sounds—barely words. At least they’re a little pathetic together.

“Awesome,” he mumbles into her neck as she strokes through his sweaty hair. She laughs, their chests pressing together, his arm trapped between them. He lifts his head to find her eyes. “Not awesome?”

She smiles and leans up to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. “Yeah, awesome’s good. A little…plain, but good.”

“Give a man a moment to recover, Beckett,” he grumbles, pushing up and sliding out of her.

She whimpers at the loss of him inside her and throws her arm over his face so she doesn’t have to see his smug grin. Yeah, yeah, he’s awesome all right.

He collapses down next to her and they lie on their backs together, looking up at the ceiling, the air conditioning cooling their overheated skin. 

“Think tech’s going to come through with that traffic capture?” he wonders after a minute, stretching his arm out, fingers flexing.

“Hopefully.”

He turns his head to look at her. “You okay?”

She smiles and finds his hand next to hers, squeezes. “I am beat. You?”

He smirks then softens and shuffles over to press his lips to her shoulder. “Definitely. Shower tonight?” She moans and he laughs. “Okay, no shower.”

“No,” she agrees. “But I have to pee.”

“No,” he protests as she sits up. She bats at his grabby hands. “Don’t leave bed.”

“Castle,” she laughs, managing to haul herself up so she can look back down at him, stretched across the bed. “You were totally game for a shower.”

“That’s a team sport.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes before sauntering to the bathroom. Well, attempting to saunter. Jeez.

“God, you and your fingers,” she mumbles, pressing a hand to her abdomen.

“Sorry,” he sing-songs as she shuts the door on his grinning face, her naked boyfriend sprawled out in bed.

He’s not sorry at all.

And even though she’s pretty sore, and her breasts look like a tapestry of hickies, she’s not sorry either. She smiles at herself in the mirror—her tired, over-sexed reflection. Yeah, she’s not sorry at all.


End file.
